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FANCY.

BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.

Parent of each lovely mufe,

Thy spirit o'er my foul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine;
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bofom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy fnowy hand.

An all-commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren fnow;
Whofe rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and sea:

While the vast various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the defart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathlefs vale;
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midit falls of water you refide:
'Midft broken rocks, a rugged fcene,
With green and graffy dales between:
'Midft foreft dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,

Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd; Where Nature feems to fit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne.

Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer, tell, To thy unknown fequefter'd cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and mofs o'erlay the floor; And on whofe top an hawthorn blows, Amid whofe thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale ftill builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to rest. Then lay me by the haunted ftream, Wrapt in fome wild, poetic dream; In converfe while methinks I rove With Spencer thro' a fairy grove; Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear;

And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the sweetly-foothing found!
Me, Goddefs, by the right-hand lead
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;
Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace refort,
And Venus keeps her feftive court,

Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
With Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads :
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lift'ning to the shepherd's fong.
Yet not these flowery fields of joy,
Can long my penfive mind employ :
Hafte, FANCY, from the fcenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy!
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and figh;
Let us with filent footsteps go

To charnels, and the house of woe;
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each fad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek.
Or to fome Abby's mouldring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wint'ry show'rs,
The naked beggar fhivering lies,
While whistling tempefts round her rise,

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And trembles, left the tottering wall
Should on her fleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bofom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' fhrieks I hear :
Give me another horse, I cry,

Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage ?----what spirit, fay,
To battle hurries we away?

"Tis FANCY, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of flain,
Where tumult and destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullen joy furveys the ground,
And pointing to' th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-fhield.
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-archt walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to fhun
The fervors of the mid-day fun.
The pangs of abfence, O remove,

For thou can't place me near my love;

Can't fold in vifionary blifs,

And let me think I fteal a kifs;

While her ruby lips difpence

Luscious nectar's quinteffence.

When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rofe;
When the foft turtle of the dale

To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns feeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his filver beard with cold;
At every season, let my ear
Thy folemn whispers, FANCY, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breaths an energy divine,
That gives a foul to every line,
Ne'er may I ftrive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallowed ftrain;
Nor dare to touch the facred ftring,
Save, when with smiles thou bid'ft me fing.
O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,
On which thou lov'ft to fit at eve,
Mufing o'er thy darling's grave.
queen of numbers, once again
Animate fome chofen fwain,

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